Reese is gone when she finally wakes up. She stretches, running her fingers over his side of the bed, sheets already cool to the touch. She wonders if she should just stay here until he comes back.
There is a message waiting on her phone.
Lana slowly slides her feet to the floor, beginning what feels like the inevitable and unavoidable return to Dean. Will she always come when he calls?
“How’d you get this?” She asks, tracing her fingers over the scar on his arm. She is lying in another bed, beside someone who feels colder beneath her hands than the empty sheets this morning.
He sighs and shifts away from her, “I don’t really remember. Accident as a kid, I guess. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t…I just wanted to talk about something other than your work for awhile.”
Dean is silent.
She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then, bringing her hands up in front of her, she continues, “Like, this one here on my pinky.” She splays her fingers out for him to see, small, pale and crescent shaped.
“Got it caught in a folding chair in the sixth grade.”
He laughs. Encouraged, she moves on, cataloging her broken pieces for him.
“This one here,” she gently lifts her breast and exposes the thin scar running beneath it, “surgery.”
“Just on the one?”
“Not that kind of surgery. I had to have a tube put in when I was younger.”
There is another pause, but it is less hostile.
She turns to him, placing her wrist on his chest. These scars are faint, but visible. Tally marks keeping their gruesome score. He takes her thin arm in his hand and sits her up.
She curls into him, but can feel him stiffen slightly at this intimacy.
“What, Dean?” At least he will give her that. The feel of his name on her lips. He belongs to her as long as she can hold those letters on her tongue.
“Lana, I asked you here because I need you to do something for me.”
She smiles, relishing the sound of her name in his mouth, pretending that she is his. “Of course, name it.”
“I need you to start delivering Dream for me.”